John Kruth “John Kruth’s Midnight Snack”

Apparently someone broke into my apartment in 1987 (the year this vinyl hit the streets, on a label I’ve never seen) (Hopewell) and deposited this one into my collection for future “review” purposes—thanks, guys! —but how did you do it, since I’ve only lived here since 2023? No, 2013, but still… At any rate, someone lived here in 1987—a fact that I prefer not to dwell on. Initially, I handled it gingerly, thinking it must be fairly contemporary—but no! The cover is amazing—looks like the scrapbook from Hell—credited to Eric von Schmidt. There is a nice b&w photo on back, and it’d be weird indeed if that wasn’t Kruth—a handsome young man wearing what looks like (it’s cropped) a coonskin cap (or maybe that’s his hair). It starts out dubiously with a lot of harmonica, and… with a capital J. The first song, “Class Clown,” is a Jaunty rocker about mild rebellion. After that, things get weird. (100% a good thing.) Second song has a really nice groove to it, even if the chorus is suspect: “Get back, get back, I’m not your midnight snack”—what human would ever say that? Or, I don’t know, maybe it’s about bedbugs. I’ll listen more closely. Actually, I’m not going to listen more closely, in case it is. Anyway, this has led me to believe anything might come along on this record, and it does. Art rock, experimental jazz, experimental folk, Violent Femmes-sounding stuff (some of them played on this record, as well as other Milwaukee old-timers) —some killer playing on this record! Good lyrics, throughout, too, though some of the songs are a bit “humorous” for me—not to say comedy or anything—nothing that fans of Frank Zappa would mind, unless you think Zappa’s the only one allowed to be whimsical—in which case, you should expand your musical horizons. Actually, maybe I should (expand…) —put those comedy, jauntiness, harmonica, fiddle, mandolin, etc. biases aside… and lighten up! The last song is called “The Donut Shop”—which of course won me over, even though it sounds like it’s a song about me! (nothing in the fridge but mayo, Cleveland and SF references)—mysterious! My favorite is “House by the Shore”—I’m thinking I must have heard it somewhere before—or maybe it just has the inevitableness of meta-horror, sounds 2025, or later! At this point, as much as I wish I was in the internet-less North Woods, I’ve got to look up John Kruth before I say something too obvious, OK? A mandolin virtuoso, wildman, multi-instrumentalist, former Milwaukee resident, later NYC resident. He’s got tons of records—but this is his first—so if I want to go into the Kruth rabbithole, I’ve started in the logical place! He’s also written tons of books, many of them about music. He’s a prolific guy, possibly still going strong—five years older than me—thus, still young. He often wears a hat, in photos, as least, so it’s likely that what I can see of the fur, crowning his head, on the large, cropped, photo, is a hat.

9.12.25

Carole King “Tapestry”

It’s funny that just after vowing my new, concise, “one paragraph” approach, the random arrow points to this one—a record you could write books about, and I’m sure people have—there must be one of those 33 1/3 books about this 1971 record, right? —that may be the one I’ll read next, because I do love this album. A record with this many great songs—I mean, not only the hits (in itself, kind of crazy) but individual songs that are different enough from each other to be whole worlds—but fit together, as well. What do I love about this album? For one thing—the way that first song, “I Feel the Earth Move,” sounds on an actual turntable, vinyl record—entirely different than the digital version—same with the big hit, “It’s Too Late”—I don’t know why this record exhibits such a stark contrast between analog and digital, but it does. Maybe it’s just this day—the air, the humidity—it sounds better than any other record. This one holds a special place in my heart as well—a secret maybe only one person will be in on with me—and I’m not going to elaborate, sorry. See my “memoirs” for that—I mean, someday, from a long time ago, and so far away, in the future. And a big maybe, no guarantees, you know that. The album cover, of course, is one of the best ever in our brief, lucky-to-live-during-it, 12-inch vinyl record era covers. There’s probably another book just on the album cover. A chapter for the cat. The back cover is wall-to-wall words, lyrics—though you can understand them, too—and credits—some fine musicians, and songwriters—you know who one of them is? Carole King. It opens up to reveal a concept I have no concept of—someday someone will explain it to me (something to look forward to). Every song is great, did I say that? And I even love them all (or, say, ten of them, let’s be real). What was going on that day at “Ode Records” when someone in charge of eventual-dollars okayed such an unlikely album cover? There is no evidence whatsoever of a plan—and you have to believe that a single magic photographic frame was exposed—and that was that. Carole King and the cat have the exact same expression—which is unreadable (as a cat).

9.5.25

Jackie Gleason “presents Music to Make You Misty”

Someday, you won’t be able to find these Jackie Gleason mood music records in thrift stores, and people won’t believe that you once could. But they must have pressed a zillion of them. This one is in fine condition, too, vinyl and cover. It’s apparently a re-release of an earlier version—indicated via a note on back—it’s like they doubled the capacity! It’s true, an earlier version I see (internet)—same cover photos, though different title font (better), from 1953, has four songs per side. This one from 1959 (my best guess) has eight songs per side. A lot of versions over the years—the prospective makeout king could age from cute to pathetic in that time—but at least he wouldn’t have to turn the record over so frequently! Not that a hot date is the only use for this vinyl—in fact, this one is on the more melancholy side. Maybe its appeal is to any gender, while going through that wistful (once dreaded but now nostalgic) period after a breakup. No cocktails are shown on the cover, but I’d recommend a well-made Manhattan. The cover photo is a classic, however, of a young redheaded woman, alone (save her discarded fur) on an itchy-looking green couch in a shoulderless something, her left hand on the silent receiver of a black cradle phone—her right hand has just brushed away tears and hair, as she looks up to… if not God, or Jackie Gleason, could be OTB race results. Her nail polish and lipstick match uncannily. Another tear is leaking from her right eye. She’s wearing the tiniest wristwatch I’ve ever seen. We can see one earring, a pearl, from which hangs a hoop, made up of, if you look closely, many tiny pearls. The background is out of focus, but it’s a vivid orange, and judging by the brass towers that I’m guessing support a spark-guard, I’d wager the tangerine hue is from a roaring fire.

As we are led to believe, Jackie Gleason has selected these ballads especially for the mood at hand—and conducted the orchestra with a languorous and slightly tipsy hand. I mean tipsy in only the best of ways. Arrangements by Sid Feller and Richard Jones. The first thing we hear is a melancholy trumpet, purported to be Bobby Hackett. Also, Toots Mondello on alto sax. The liner notes indicate that this is only the third issued of these Gleason moodfests, after Music for Lovers Only and Lover’s Rhapsody. (I own a half-dozen Gleason’s, but not those two.) I don’t know offhand how many of these similar offerings were eventually published—I could look it up, but so could you—that’s the kind of thing the WWW excels at. The songs presented here are all incredibly matching in their mellow melancholy, tone and tempo, so no unwelcome surprises—what you want under these wistful conditions. All standards, of course, though I don’t know a high percentage of the sixteen offerings—in a “name that tune” capacity, that is. I definitely hum a few in my more far-off dreams. They’re spread around among the great composers, but I’m not going to list them here—again consult your rolodex.

8.29.25

Laura Nyro “New York Tendaberry”

It wasn’t Laura Nyro that pushed me over the edge, not at all—more likely this humidity, this summer—in fact I’m threatening to move to an island in the Upper Great Lakes with just my notebooks, books, and a few albums—including 3 or 4 Nyros. As time progresses, I get more longwinded, sleepy, frantic, and life is less fun. The whole idea of writing weekly record “reviews” is s’posed to be… that’s how I enjoy music. I use a random number to pick what to write about—the idea being, no pressure, enjoy it, it’s like an assignment with no consequences, really. I’m not trying to reassess anything nor be the last word. When I started this idea, back around 2006, it was fun—I just jotted some bland and incendiary notions—and posted it. Now, over time, though I’m certain some of my observations are a tad more thorough (and hopefully interesting), on the whole, the enterprise lacks spontaneity and levity. So, rather than give it up—I decided to vow to write short bits—not necessarily reviews, and certainly not bios and Wikipedic overviews. Ideally, just one interesting observation, and move on. I’m shooting for a single paragraph, from here on in. Naturally, there may be times when I go nuts and spew text, for better or worse—but if you (the reader) want a 33/13 series type book—those are out there, and you should buy one and support that project—I do from time to time! Anyway, this one is already an extra paragraph just due to this explanatory nonsense—but that’s not Laura Nyro’s fault!

I love this record, and that’s all I’m gonna say about it! That was easy. Do I have all her records yet? No, but most—sadly too altogether few—but I’m grateful for what exists. This is her third LP, and it occurred to me that there are these three, this one and the one just before and after, that… I have no idea what the titles mean. Later, there’s one called “Smile”—I can get my head around that. Her first one will always be my favorite—well, maybe not. I like them all—but this one is the most mysterious I’ve heard—it’s both lush and spare—mostly vocals and piano, with some drums and orchestra, comes and goes. It’s very quiet… but gets wound up when the time comes. I’m not going to go song by song, or side by side—I take it as a whole thing and like it that way. There may (and hopefully shall) be a time when I sit down and decipher the lyrics, and at that time my love for the record my grow richer—I hope so. I don’t know if it was released with an inner sleeve with lyrics, or any other clues—I don’t have one. Just a stark, black and white cover, Laura Nyro on front and back, different expressions—her name and title on front, and on back, a few words, simply: “Where is the night luster? Past my trials.” My sentiments exactly. When I was younger, say, age 9, when this 1969 record came out, it didn’t occur to me to ask what “Tendaberry” means. But these days, I’m asking questions. “Word” (my shitty word-processing) doesn’t like it, says it’s not a word. (It also doesn’t like Nyro.) A movie recently was made with that title—so that’s all the internet will give you, which is annoying… but I’ll see that movie (just for its title). When “New York” is used as a modifier, it’s most often: city, bagels, yankees, times—but for me, it’s this. Given the chance, it’s the first thing I’d ask Laura Nyro (not really, but maybe). So… I’d agree to go to Heaven if it was guaranteed I could talk to her, there—and then eat pancakes.

8.22.25

Edward Byrnes “Kookie, Kookie (Lend Me Your Comb)” / “You’re the Top”

That I must have intended to insert this song (ironically) into my epic video, Seafood (2000), is the only reason I can think of for owning a copy of this annoying 45 with the hot-pink WB label. It’s Edward Byrnes, not to be confused with Edward Burns (also an actor), but to be confused with Edd Byrnes (Edd with two d’s) star of 77 Sunset Strip—a show I almost, vaguely, remember, but probably don’t, really. His character in that show was, not coincidently, named “Kookie.” This 1959, 2 minute and 5 second ear-virus has the distinction of being the longest two minutes in recorded history, due in part to what’s come to be known as the “Connie Stevens Effect” (nothing against Connie Stevens), as somehow, she fits into this short song at least six times her really annoying demand: “Kookie, Kookie, lend me your comb… Kookie, Kookie…” It’s relentless! I’ll lend you my fucking comb! I know that’s the point, to be annoying, because for a moronic percentage of the general audience, annoying sells records. Sometimes that’s called “novelty.” Not that the record is without some funny bits, like: “Smog in my noggin,” and other hipster expressions. The B-side is a similarly hipster-esque version of Cole Porter’s “You’re the Top”—which is at least less annoying—but that’s a song, if ever there was one, that doesn’t need help in the cleverness department.

8.15.25

John Hartford “Housing Project”

Unfamiliar with John Hartford, it was certainly the album cover that compelled me to pay my money and take my chances. It’s 100% collage—a chaotic grouping of mostly rectangular photograph fragments—it sort of looks like a taped-up memorabilia wall or bulletin board. There’s no photo here more than a couple of inches wide—though there are some tall ones—and they look like they could all be personal property of the artist in question, John Hartford—but I have no way of knowing. My favorite is a tiny one of a straight-backed chair sitting at the base of some industrial looking stairs—classic smoking area! Yet, there’s no one there. Maybe it was a spot where John Hartford sat and entertained some coworkers with his pickin’ and strummin’—why not. If this record is any indication, he was an entertaining guy, both with the spoken word witticisms and philosophy and the instrumental prowess. He’s got one of those crystal-clear voices that sounds like he just got out of sound-like-you’re-from-Ohio broadcasting school—every word as distinct as a glass shard, especially in the talking stuff. Though, when singing along with banjo there’s a tinge of the South. Where was he from? New York City, but grew up in St. Louis—okay, with particular interest in the Mississippi River—perfect for a boy. A year older than my mom, which doesn’t put anything in any kind of perspective, but I always take notice—I’m human. This record came out when I was eight—1968—but it took me over half a century to find it. His third or fourth among a ton of records.

He's a songwriter—ever since I looked him up, I keep seeing his name pop up in other people’s song credits—or maybe my dreams, I don’t know. “A song is a room…” is how this album starts out—he’s monologuing a fine intro (called “Housing Project”)—a profound mini-essay on the song—worth the price of admission—it could fit in front of any collection of the classic song-form. I’m tempted to type it all out, it’s so good—but laziness prevails. That leads into a bluegrassy folky political song with no small amount of humor, called, “I’m Still Here.” That’s a certain kind of folk song, and the next one, “Crystallia Daydream,” is another style, more abstract, poetic, ephemeral sounding, instrumentally—though his voice is still clear as pre-digital Ma Bell. There are no musician credits—so perhaps he’s playing everything, as he’s a guitarist, fiddl’r, and banjo-leer, and no doubt a natural percussionist. He also wrote the liner notes—fragments of wit an’ ’icisms—poems, jokes, humor, bits of philosophizin’—more or less a collage of words—very good. I normally don’t paraphrase, but the first part is so excellent, I’m going to—however, inserting slashes for his line breaks—it goes: “someone told me a long time ago/don’t go over there and look at that/or even listen to it/from over here… it will only confuse you/and it was then I realized/how badly I needed to be confused/because I found myself confused/wondering why I shouldn’t be confused.”

I guess I was thinking it’d be a record I’d enjoy the cover, read the liner notes, and play once through while scribbling some incomprehensible gibberish adjacent to it, as is my wont, but I’ve caught myself thinking about it more than I’d be comfortable with, as if it’s working its way into the dream receptors. Maybe it has something to do with those nighttime visits I’ve been having with that hilly town with twisting roads and odd but spacious living places I only visit after waking at 3 a.m., and falling back to sleep. There is something about it that grows on me, I suppose—partly it’s his voice, sounding like he’s sitting across the table with coffee—and partly the lyrics—which I feel compelled to return to. I’ll likely pick up more of his records. But for now, I’m listening to this one some more. I’m not crazy about all the songs—some are too jaunty folkish for me—but I like them all okay. And some I like more than a lot—the ones mentioned above—along with, let’s say, “I Didn’t know the World Would Last This Long” (great title), “The Category Stomp,” “Go Fall Asleep Now,” and “Big Blue Balloon”—but I like all of ’em!

8.8.25

Groove Me – A Celebration of Classic Soul and R&B

A fairly recent collection—well, that’s how I feel about 1991—it’s probably one of the newer records I have—20 R&B and Soul hit songs by a variety of artists. I’ve got a few of these odd compilation records—perhaps put out by record companies to capitalize on their catalogs, most likely not sufficiently compensating the artists within. I suppose if the record was coming out now, I’d feel weird about it, and for good reason, but seeing how it’s but an artifact which I bought for probably $3 at an antique mall, I mostly feel lucky to get a couple of very clean vinyl discs (shoved into one flimsy cover) of uniformly great music for makin’ love, or… you know, washing dishes, cleaning, researching more great music. I know a lot of the songs and most of the artists, but not all. The first song is (surprise) “Grove Me”—by King Floyd, which I had a single of, way back, and always put on homemade cassette mix cassette tapes—that’s a great song. Other artists here are: Barbara Acklin, Tyrone Davis, Marvin Gaye, Jr. Walker & The All Stars, Brook Benton, Detroit Emeralds, Bloodstone, The Dells, William Bell, Jean Knight, Bobby Womack, The Staple Singers, The Dramatics, Denise LaSalle, The Temptations, The Delfonics, Brenda & The Tabulations, The New Birth, and The Five Stairsteps. One song each. Any of these songs could lead you to a complete obsession with a recording artist’s career, so I guess the record does kind of function as an advertisement. Or a great listening record. The cover is a large black and white photo of a couple sitting on a sofa, on a date, presumably enjoying this music. It’s an odd photo in that it really looks like a private snapshot rather than a studio setup! (But there are photo credits—plus, if it was a snapshot, who’s the third wheel?) What is particularly notable is the stark design on the woman’s sweater, which looks to me like no pattern in Heaven or on Earth—perhaps houndstooth on acid—I’d buy it. At any rate, I intend to use this record if ever I replicate that scene (with or without the sweater), but I’d have to, somehow, figure out how to initiate dating—seems unlikely at this point—but worth the old college try.

8.1.25

Timi Yuro “The Amazing Timi Yuro”

I can tell you the exact thrift store where I saw a Timi Yuro LP about six months ago and I’m being hard on myself because I didn’t buy it—what were my reasons? I thought I might have it; I hadn’t listened to this one yet; it was trashed to some degree; I don’t remember. You don’t see them every day, and I have no idea where I got this one. It’s a fantastic record. They could have called it The Fantastic Timi Yuro, but then I’d have to say that it’s an amazing record. Maybe “The Amazing” is a better title. The Fantastic Four. The Amazing Timi Yuro. She’s a pop and soul singer from Chicago—well, she passed away long ago, much too young. There’s a variety of popular songs here, ballads, but all of them highly emotional—some are familiar standards, and some I don’t know. She goes all out with the vocals. Bobby Scott orchestra, and it’s produced by Quincy Jones. The record is from 1964, and she was born in 1941, so she was what, early-twenties when she recorded this—I’ve got to say she sounds much older—but what does that mean? I’m sure she felt plenty old at the time, and her voice is mature, both in execution and portraying the emotional impact, working with the lyrics and the bigness of the songs.

Excellent album cover—the top half a stylized title and song list and the bottom half a great photo of Timi Yuro (yet another taken at the edge of park) her jacket collar turned up to the cold, her dark hair a little messy, and an entirely inscrutable expression on her face. Not smiling. The background is blurred out, and she’s leaning against an ancient, sculpted, iron lamppost painted metropark green. That’s the best photo you’ll ever see of that lamppost. Maybe the best photo you’ll see of Timi Yuro. The frankly odd uncredited liner notes on back read like they’re written by “AI”—did they have AI in 1964? I suppose if we are all a product of AI, just now getting around to eating its own tail, as some theories go, could be. I couldn’t read it—my head was swimming halfway through. I love all twelve of these songs, not a lukewarm Lennon-McCartney among them. (For first-time readers, I love the Beatles, but many of the jumping on the bandwagon covers of them leave me out.) The songs I know are “Maybe You’ll Be There” and “I Got it Bad (And That Ain’t Good), but I’m getting to know the rest. It’s odd how the first two songs sound so similar—it’s counterintuitive, but it works. The first, “(I’m Afraid) The Masquerade is Over”—long title, but maybe my favorite here—there’s a spoken part, talking about getting a clown disguise—which I’m always a sucker for. (Spoken parts and clowns.) “I Can Dream, Can’t I” is another favorite, but don’t make me pick. Or, perhaps, “I Didn’t Know What Time It Was.” Or “There Must Be a Way” —but I like them all!

7.25.25

Hod + Marc “Hod & Marc”

I’m pretty sure I didn’t get this one in the $100-record-bin —how do I know that? Because I never shop in the $100-record-bin —why? Because, with spending, I probably average $3 per record—so you choose—between one $100-record or roughly 33 1/3 cheap records—a lot of them trash—but at least one as good as anything on the deep-pockets-rack. I’m holding off listening—because I can dream of excellence while I look for clues. The cover is a postcard size photo (surrounded by a wasteland of white space) of two curly-haired, light-skinned, middle-aged guys, and a beautiful dog. I don’t know dog breeds, but it’s not a Chihuahua. A big dog, maybe a Husky or an Alaskan Malkmus. Blue jeans, casual, one guy has a suede jacket with a lot of fringe. On the back, the exact same photograph, uncropped and not processed, 8 ½ x 11—they’re in the grass at edge of some woods. Song titles and credits are on back, nothing else. What first gets your attention is “Produced by Bob Johnston”—so that’s impressive. I think the musicians are some Nashville legends—Pete Drake, Kenny Buttrey, Tim Drummond, Bob Wilson, Eddie Hinton—not sure about Nashville, but big-time session guys that I recognize. The year, 1972, a good one. And Bell records, which I have a soft spot for, since I believe the first LP I ever owned was on Bell. So, this explains why I shelled out the big bucks—but who are Hod & Marc? Could the dog be one of them? Well, no one would name a dog “Marc,” but I could imagine a dog named “Hod.” Which would make one of them men “Marc”—but then who is the other guy? Also, is it “hod + marc” as rendered on the front in neat black crayon, or “HOD & MARC” as indicated on back, and on the label?

Before resorting to the broken internet, I’m simply listening, like a kid in 1972 who just scored the vinyl at Record Upheaval and took it home. I’d have been a little bummed out back then—too mellow for my young ears—but it’s just my thing a half century later, singer songwriter drivel with acoustic guitar and minimal backing. Just kidding, it’s not drivel—I like these songs. They’re all written by Hod David, sometimes with others—I’m assuming that’s the same Hod as on the cover (he’s also credited with acoustic guitar)—it would be too weird if there were two Hods—I don’t believe I’ve ever heard that name before. That I like the record, shouldn’t be so surprising with that hall-of-fame lineup accompaniment, and all of these songs are very good. My favorites are “The Warm Summer Rain,” “Come & Gone,” “In Colorado,” and “By Love I Mean.”

Finally, though, I’m resorting to my thinktank for some info—Discogs has a brief bio of Hod David, with his photo, which matches the leather jacket guy on the cover. The weird thing is, Discogs has info about another Hod David—also a songwriter and musician—what are the odds? I’ll just let that go. Trying to figure out who “Marc” is, is another problem, since he’s not credited anywhere on the album—which is, let’s face it, a little weird. Thankfully, Discogs also lists “Hod + Marc” as a band (they use the + sign instead of the & sign) and in that listing, provide Marc’s name, which is Marc Allen Trujillo, a singer who had a few records in the Seventies, including “(Everybody’s Goin’) Hollywood” (great title). As far as Hod David, Discogs and Archives West say that he changed his name to Hod David from Howard M. Schudson, and he was born in Milwaukee in 1942, was married to actress Enid Kent, and sadly died in a car accident in 1980. He’s got a lot of music credits, particularly as a songwriter. But there’s only one “Hod + Marc” album—and I’ve got it.

7.18.25

Mary Lou Williams “Mary Lou Williams in London”

Even though this is an inexpensive reissue on the GNP Crescendo label, it’s a fine vinyl record that sounds fantastic even on my budget stereo. The cover is a haunting, old, tinted, 7” x 7” portrait (it could be larger, but I guess it’s intense enough as it is) of the artist in question. By 1974, jazz piano phenom Mary Lou Williams had released tons (not by weight, but that, too) of records—to make a complete discography of her records, including everything’s she’s played on, written, arranged, etc., that’s someone’s life’s work. Collecting them all is someone else’s (could be crossover) life’s work. Of course, nothing even compared to being Mary Lou Williams. Liner notes are by Dave Dexter, Jr., which serves as a brief bio. She was born in 1910, was a child prodigy on piano, and she played with everyone. If I had some kind of music streaming service, I could presumably listen to an overview of her recorded music—but for me, that’s not how I like to enjoy music. I do wish that more, older, jazz records were affordable. I also miss the days when you’d go over to some friend’s place—who was a record collector—and she’d get excited about playing you selected records by some artist you knew very little about. That’s the way to listen to music. She might say, how about Mary Lou Williams? —and start breaking them out. If you know someone like that, consider yourself very lucky! In the meantime, I’ll keep an eye out for more of these cheapo discs (and I say that lovingly—I mean affordable to mere mortals)—because records like this, I can keep near the hi-fi and put on any time, and I do.

On this record we have swinging, up-tempo versions of familiar standards interpreted by Mary Lou Williams—with Ken Napper, Allan Ganley and Tony Scott—that’s from the back cover album credits—might not be complete—as this is a compilation. Besides bass and drums, the accompaniment includes bongos—quite nice on these recordings. A few of these songs I’m not familiar with, including a couple of Mary Lou Williams compositions—which are heavy with the percussion (bongos, I guess) and among my favorites here.  I can happily report that each of the twelve songs is a standout, and therefore, I’m not listing them all, or picking favorites! I like this piano jazz style as much as anything—the arrangements are minimal, and I can hear the separation. The piano is not minimal, a lot of notes, perfect sounding to me. I don’t have the vocabulary, or jazz vocabulary, to talk about her style. I am such a song-oriented listener, with popular music, anyway—I don’t normally focus on technique, virtuosity, or style—not that I don’t like to be amazed. Okay, I lied, my favorite here is “Don’t Blame Me” (not the Taylor Swift song!) —it’s one I know pretty well, though I can’t remember whose version. (It was only covered hundreds of times.) It’s a Dorothy Fields and Jimmy McHugh song—and I know a Thelonious Monk version that I love. It’s a little slower in tempo than the rest, here, very nice. And, okay, one more—in particular, her piano on “For You” (Al Dubin/Joe Burke) is quite striking—it’s doing something to me. For me. To me. For me.

7.11.25

Brian Cadd “Moonshine”

This is one of those albums that, song by song, might elicit an expression of “what the hell?”—in both good and bad ways. The overall sound, and the playing, and arrangements, are great—but the songs… they’re all over the place—and sometimes all over the place within one song. But there are so many good moments, it makes the off-putting ones forgivable—and all of it fairly impressive—also considering all compositions are by Brain Cadd. I’ve only listened to it a few times, so far, and I’m still not sure if the songs are going to grow on me like a loyal dog or a fungus. We’ll see, but probably not by the end of this review. When I grabbed the record from the $3 rack, my thoughts were, gratuitous liquor reference, check. $3, check. 1974, my favorite year for records. A dude I’ve never heard of, excellent. Also, I was unfamiliar with the label, Chelsea, not that it’s unusual—I just hadn’t seen it—and its slogan—“…A Constant New Beginning”—which confuses me to this day. And even listening for the first time—the country and western influence, and—just going by his look (all black, including a hat, beard, medallion) (and there’s another cover that’s totally country). And what I assumed was a name, Cadd, given to him by disreputable ladies (though, as it turns out, Cadd is his real name—he changed it at one point to Brian Caine, and you can hardly blame him). So, it turns out he’s from below the Mason-Dixon Line—but way below—because, of course, it turns out that Brian Cadd is from Australia. Also, he shares a birthday with my dad, but he’s much younger. Actually, he isn’t that old (born 1946), and he is a major recording artist, and he is still at it.

He's got a website, and a tour scheduled, and I had that chilling moment where—since Summerfest is going on here—thinking that he might be in the room next door at this moment! Though, apparently bands find it difficult to park the rock buses at the Plaza Hotel, and are also warned that they don’t have shopping baskets at the Metro Market, so they stay elsewhere. But you never know! It just happened that I fell into the YouTube Midnight Special Rabbit-hole last week and I just happened to come across Brian Cadd! On one of those international episodes—they play the first two songs from this record (which are two of the better ones) and he’s got quite a hot band, fun one to watch—also, he’s wearing, not all black, but what almost looks like a multicolored silk clown suit. It turns out, there is no shortage whatsoever of Brain Cadd info, appreciation, interviews, music, clips, and history on the ol’ ’ternet—and I could spend the next month digesting it all and re-spewing here—or I could spend the next half-hour spellchecking and posting what I’ve written here—so I’ll do that. Feel free to go on your own Cadd odyssey if you so desire. Personally, I’m going to keep this record out and give it few more listens, see what grows on me and what doesn’t.

7.4.25

Pianosaurus “Groovy Neighborhood”

A brief stay in the “North Woods” (actually at the Stinking Root Writer’s Retreat, just to get away from the car alarms, emergency vehicles, police intrusions, and the tap tap tap of water on my window AC unit—plus, it’s supposed to look good on a resume) but since it’s Friday, I thought I’d put aside the new novel for a few minutes and randomly pick an LP from the pickle crate and drop it on the Victrola—which turns out to be Pianosaurus—a band that I totally remember and had totally forgotten about even existing! The crazy thing is, the first song, “Thriftshoppin’,” is SO familiar, it’s almost as if I played on this song myself. I did not. Why is it so familiar, then? I can only think I must have put this song on a mixtape cassette—one that I listened to excessively. Have I mentioned that I still have about 70% of my cassettes—the ones that didn’t get water damaged—and they may still play, but my cassette deck (that may still work) hasn’t been plugged in—I won’t go into it—for about 7 or 8 years. Anyway, I’ve been realizing that I’ve been losing things from my memory—possibly items that have been sitting dormant and have the pandemic between now and the last time I engaged. Does that make sense? The other day, I read a reference to a song, somewhere (Pynchon), which was: “He’s good-bad, but he’s not evil,” and it took me the longest time to come up with the memory of the song (“Give Him a Great Big Kiss”). Worse, because I was in a band that played a cover of that song!

Well, it didn’t take me long to remember what this band had going: toy instruments. It’s a gimmick, and a pretty good one, it’s not subtle. Everyone knows what a toy piano sounds like, even if you think you didn’t. Naturally, someone might add a toy piano to a recording, occasionally, like for flavor or something, but no one else (that I know of) has featured the instrument, like here. And there’s a reason for that. It wears out its welcome horrifically fast. As you would expect. But it also works here, in some weird way, because the songs are good. Good pop songs, written by the band, and a few covers. Some really good songs, actually—and one has to wonder if they considered at any point that a compromise—playing the same songs with NOT-toy instruments might be their ticket to number one hits, coke, groupies, etc. On the other hand. What other hand. Well, I’m delighted to see there are extensive liner notes by Don Howland, written at a time (November 1986) when he played with my very favorite band at that time (Gibson Bros.) during a brief period that I lived in Columbus, Ohio. It’s very possible I ran into him at the bar on the very day he wrote this. I’m kind of embarrassed, in that he says (in the notes) a lot of what I have just grappled with—though his version is much better (and 40 years ago!) which is why, whenever I go to write one of these “reviews”—internet-free North Woods or not, I never read about it first—I just listen. I do wonder what happened to this band. It’s very possible they’re on the bill at Summerfest, back in Milwaukee, on this very night.

6.27.25

The Siegel-Schwall Band “953 West”

I’ve absolutely no memory of the event, but I’m sure I bought this record because of the excellent hand-drawn album cover. I don’t mean each unit was drawn individually—that’s something I’d pull (and get away with, too, with as few records as I sell). But it’s a simple line drawing of a street scene—like like felt-tipped pen—black on white—including the name of the band, the title, the label logo (Wooden Nickel), and all the credits on back—and they also let him write a poem! Could have been done in one sitting! By Eddie Balchowsky—of course I looked him up. I probably say this too often, but it’s worth checking out his Wikipedia page! Fascinating! He’s no longer with us, but this album cover definitely lives on. When I often complain about weak album covers, like the same four-by-five photo on the front and back, etc., I’d like to hold this up as an example of a great album cover. Not that it’s easy—you might need a Balchowsky—but make an effort! You’ve got an unprecedented 12x12 canvas.

I most likely almost didn’t buy the record just because of clues in the credits indicating it being a blues record—and while I’m sometimes a huge fan of blues music, I’m sometimes not—so many takes on it, you know, it can be hit and miss—and when it’s a miss (for me) it’s a bummer. So I was pretty happy after a few songs, hearing the variety of approaches and their eclectic take on blues music, here—nothing watered down, and indeed pretty “out there.” A fun record worth some repeat listenings. So… who are these guys—I’d never heard of them (which means precisely nothing). It turns out they’ve got lots of records (this 1973 LP is their seventh) and they played tons in Chicago—they must have a lot of fans down there. I get the feeling if you saw them in an intimate setting, you’d have a fine evening of music and a pretty good time overall—a lot of personality and I’m guessing a great show.

Excellent playing, all around—and this is a very good recording. Naturally, there’s harmonica—that would be Corky Siegel, who also keeps busy playing piano, while the Schwall in the band name (Jim) plays guitar. They both sing, as does the bass player Rollo Radford. The drummer is Sheldon Ira Plotkin. These guys have great names! They also play very well, and the record sounds great, as clear an azure sky, etc. The songs are all over the place, bluesy folk, country, pop-rock, I guess, whatever. They wrote most of them, some good lyrics, what I hear on initial notice, some are very funny. It’s worth some closer attention, for sure. The record holds up well as a whole, and I don’t necessarily want to single anything out, but an understandably sentimental favorite is “I Think It Was the Wine”—which is about the lowlife, naturally—lyrics crystal clear and hilarious. I don’t like lamely excerpting lyrics, so I won’t—you want to hear the whole thing—it’s almost certainly ’tube-able.

What does the cover mean? It refers to a bar in Chicago where the band used to play, The Quiet Knight, at 953 West Belmont. If it was founded today, it would be called 953, due to the unfortunate trend in naming establishments and buildings as numbers (usually the address). I hate that! Just give the place a name! Use your imagination! They did back then—The Quiet Knight is a great name. It didn’t take long to find a lot of writing on the old ’net about this legendary place—and the incredible roster of acts that played there over the years—worth looking up. I don’t know Chicago, but apparently it’s like the intersection of Belmont and the “L”—the drawing on the cover is of the transit stop. The Knight is sadly gone… what’s there today? A map shows that it’s the Chicago Bagel Authority, which is somewhat ironic since The Siegel-Schwall Band was known, back in the day, as “Chicago Bagel Authority”—in refence to that other great Chicago band with a similar handle—and due to their fondness for those doughy rings of joy. That’s not true—I’m just kidding—please don’t copy and paste that into your Chicago magazine or your social studies homework or we’ll both end up looking like schmoes. In fact, I’m going to edit out that lame joke before press time.

6.20.25

Joe Brooks and Rosko “Morning”

So, what is it with morning? Morning this and morning that? What’s up with “morning” with these guys? Can’t stop dwelling on “the morning.” I know, in folk and pop and country music, it’s a favorite subject (especially Sunday morning)—I suppose it’s because it’s when you take stock of your sins from the night before—drank too much, or took advantage of someone… you know what I’m saying. Or maybe it’s the morning/mourning pun—that I’m oblivious of because it’s too obvious. For me, they (mornings) were about homefries and coffee in a diner. But wherever and whichever “God” you face, morning is, I guess, the time of reckoning.

Oh! The name of the record is “Morning”—it’s a theme. Okay, now it makes sense. What doesn’t make sense is the style of this record—it’s minimal, acoustic, folk and pop, guitar and piano and some sensitive singing—and then, what comes in, over the top—none other than spoken word narration—as if someone is reading poetry over the top of a recorded musical performance! It’s fantastic! It doesn’t sound like they’re in the same town, much less the same room. Yet, the album cover would have us thinking that not only are they almost embracing, but their molecules might also be fusing, which could be quite painful. There are separate photos on the back, however, so we can make out which one is which. There “who’s who” of Joe Brooks and Rosko.

So, who are these guys? Joseph Brooks was a very successful composer, performer, filmmaker, etc.—but best known for writing Debby Boone’s 1977 fatal ear screw, “You Light Up My Life.” Can’t forgive that one! Okay, sorry, some people love that song. But it gets worse. Much, much worse. And I’m not here to copy sordid biographical details off artists’ Wikipedia pages—sometimes I wish I was still living in the pre-internet days—times like this. So, it’s up to you, reader, to look for yourself. On the other hand, Rosko—full name William Roscoe Mercer—was a DJ and voiceover artist—quite successful—what I can find (with little effort). But… without the astronomical highs and abysmal lows of his partner, here.

As far as I can tell, this 1970 document was their only collaboration, at least on disc. It kind of makes you think. Lives are so much more than brief biographical sketches—and a forgotten record like this might be just a knockoff, or maybe it’s the key—to something. But can I stomach the extended, repeated listening needed to potentially get to the bottom of its weirdness? I mean, it’s no chore—it’s lovely and fascinating—but in light of what I, now, know about Brooks. (And is that fair to Rosko?) The maddening thing is, this record really is intriguing—the voice-over style works! In a way, it’s more baroque than folky, and I like the baroque—but is it? Or is it just weird? Close attention to the words promises either mystery or demystification—but can I go there? At first listening, the poetry is like leaden pancakes made with cocaine instead of baking powder, topped with LSD infused blueberries. All in good time, I suppose, all in good time. I guess I’ll hang onto this record, for now.

6.13.25

Steely Dan “Gaucho”

How I ever got to be 65 years old without having friends who regularly use the phrase “High in the Custerdome” as shorthand (for something!) would seem to be one of my major failings in life. Maybe it’s merely because I have few friends and none of them happen to be Steely Dan fanatics, at least to the degree I am, but it could also be that—seeing how Becker and Fagen refused to ever give a straight answer about what that means (good for them!)—perhaps we’re a little wary it could refer to something untoward, such as age inappropriate relationships or humor that some Native Americans might find offensive. Don’t need to get cancelled once again! Of course, it’s possible that the “real story” came out in an interview or something I might have missed—though you’d think the algorithm would have shoved that in my face by now—in one of those articles requiring you to click though 65 ads to get to the unsatisfying conclusion. Also, I do have my own theory, which is admittedly a little nuts (but then, so is that line, in the chorus from the title track, right?)—though I’m convinced my interpretation is “spot on”—but I’m not going to repeat it here, as it’s discussed in my “review” of the song, on the Steely Dan page of my website (rspeen.com) —which reminds me, I need to get back to that! At any rate, I’m not going to talk about the album, song by song, here, since my favorite approach to SD has been focusing on a song at a time, with particular emphasis on the lyrics—which is why I’ve found the band, since I’ve initiated that approach, more fascinating than ever. Here, I’m just going think about the album as a whole—and try to keep it short. Good luck with that—it’s already not short!

Besides Pretzel Logic, it’s my favorite of their album covers—mysterious and distant-feeling art, from Argentina, I guess, that seems to be on a wall. It’s very cool. You’d guess it was jazz album. I barely remember what record buying felt like in 1980, actually, but I don’t recall this fitting in anywhere. I don’t think I bought it at that time—I was through with Steely Dan. I’m trying to listen to it right now with fresh ears—totally impossible. Though, had I put it aside for 45 years, it might be. I’ve listened to this record a lot over the past few years, however, as I’ve slowly started to come around to it. There was a time that, not only was it my least favorite SD record, but also, I kind of despised it—I found it bland and insipid. But about 10 years ago, or so, as I became, somehow, a bigger fan of the band in general, I decided I’d make appreciating this album a project, and I’ve slowly come around to it. I know that for some “Dan” (as the fans say) fans, this one is the absolute pinnacle—or if not, second to Aja or maybe The Royal Scam—and I respect that opinion. Part of my increased geekdom has included ranking the albums, ranking all the songs, and seeking out the oddities and adjacent records. I’m a bit over that, now, but it’s a lot of fun to approach certain music that way—that’s part of what being a fan is about.

My best approach with Steely Dan, however, as I said, is a song at a time (picking them at random)—to go as deep as possible with the song—many listenings, headphones, following the lyrics, etc. It’s not like their albums don’t mean anything as albums, but you can really approach each song as something to be reckoned with. They don’t have weak songs, or filler, not at all. Most bands have primarily filler, to go along with their “hits.” Writing a great song is not easy, and even one on an album is an accomplishment. There are only seven songs on this record, but they’re all great. Each one has an epic feeling. I have written short articles about a few of them, now, and not surprisingly, those are my favorites, at this point. And even though I’m not going through this record, here, now, song by song, I’ll admit that on this date my favorite is the song, “Gaucho”—and it’s a challenge for me to even figure out why. It could be the contrast between what I find a really off-putting opening (that first verse almost makes me want to puke) and the overly slick yet sleazy saxophone, throughout—the contrast with all that and the really lovely, lush chorus, which is the musical equivalent of falling in love.

Besides that, “Time Out of Mind” is the funniest song—and again, that’s partly due to contrasts—it’s so happy and easy sounding, while the lyrics are just pretty grim. While I’ll likely never have any idea what “Gaucho” is about, if this one isn’t about a love affair with hard drugs, then I need to turn in my Hardy Boys Detective Handbook. Sure, maybe it’s all metaphorical. Ha. Anyway, those are two songs I’ve taken the time to put under my major nerd microscope, and my appreciation for them has prospered. Along with “Hey Nineteen,” which I maintain is generally misunderstood. And that’s all I’m going say, for now, except that I repeatedly have an odd sensation while listening to this as a full vinyl album—which is: As few songs as there are—Side A feels like a full course, and then the first three songs on Side B feel like a full side—and that last song, “Third World Man,” almost feels like a bonus track, or a single—like it almost doesn’t fit—but not in a bad way. It’s a really beautiful song, a bit melancholy, and I guess, like disappearing down a dark road. Maybe it’s because this was the end of Steely Dan. Did we or did we not know that, or get that, at the time? Of course, it was, and it wasn’t. It is, and it isn’t.

6.6.25

Dave Loggins “Personal Belongings”

This is one of those records I picked up purely for the cover—knowing nothing about Dave Loggins. This is his first album, 1972. There’s a full cover color photo with the title strung across it like a big smile. The photo is of (I’m assuming) Dave Loggins, a bearded white man with a turtleneck and a denim jacket, sitting there with his hands folded, partially enveloped by fog, or smoke (smoke machine?) and then, just behind his right shoulder is a blond woman—and because of the smoke, she looks like a disembodied head. It’s kind of frightening—and they both have similar, unreadable expressions that I’d be likely to interpret as disdain for the photographer. Ha! But it’s a great cover—people come away with some lame album covers—which is baffling to me. All you really need to do is take a sharp snapshot of the artist in question doing something like frying eggs—blow it up to full album size—and you’ve got a classic cover! Or an odd portrait with smoke and unnerving perspective and expressions works, too. But instead, so many artists will do something like use like only six square inches, in the middle, for a stock photo of a flying seagull or something. It’s confounding. But anyway, this one is excellent.

So, right in the first song, the progression of the chords, it’s almost like a dream of something you know—you can almost hear it coming—like the ghost of a familiar song—until you’re expecting it, any minute: “Even though we ain’t got money, I’m so in love with you honey…” But it never comes, because it’s not that song! I mean, it’s not exactly like “Danny’s Song,” but just enough to be disorienting. Kenny Loggins wrote that song about his brother—was Dave another brother? No Dave and Kenny are second cousins. I’m never sure exactly what that means, twice removed, all that, but the crucial thing is they’re related—all Logginses! They’ve got songs in their blood. Also, this song has enough of a Christian slant that you have to wonder if Dave Loggins, in his solo career, considered the professional name “Loggins and Messiah.”

The next song is a perfectly nice, folk, pop song called “Pieces of April”—a very good one. All of these songs are written by Dave Loggins, so he’s not hiding behind anything. Crystal clear, and you can understand the lyrics. Unfortunately, sometimes: “A box of candy for to see you smile.” Love songs—and occasionally some curious lyrics. The crucial last line in “Claudia” goes, “Our love will always grow, but what would a tree ever be if it didn’t have branches.” Which could be somewhat problematic, metaphorically… depending… not sure how to take that. I should have guessed there’d be a folk element—Vanguard label, folk instruments, songs called “Sister Mary Ryan” and “A Sailor’s Misfortune”—which is also a fine song, maybe my favorite on the record.

5.30.25

Vince Guaraldi Trio “Jazz Impressions of Black Orpheus”

This is kind of a double record, side one being one thing and side two another, though they both fit together like peanut butter and… anything—and I kind of wish it was really a double record, as in, extra disc with more of what I’m sure was recorded, even if it’s outtakes, etc., because it’s all very cool and endlessly listenable, repeatedly lovely. It sounds like someone put the needle on Side One of this one about 1000 too many times—yet, it still works! The first side is songs from the film, Black Orpheus (1959), bossa nova classics by Luiz Bonfá and Antônio Carlos Jobim, songs that you know even if you don’t know you know them. These versions by Vince Guaraldi Trio—VG, piano, Monte Budwig, bass, and Colin Bailey, drums—are very nice—to me, unsophisticated as I am, sounding somewhere in the vast ocean between Latin and jazz. Exotic while also household as Frigidaire—I can’t listen to VG without always seeing some Charlie Brown or other come to life, but I mean that only in the best way.

The second side starts with the VG’s hit song “Cast Your Fate to the Wind” (another you’ve heard and probably know intimately, even if you get the name wrong on Jeopardy!). That’s followed by “Moon River”—a version that’ll make you forget the lost cat. And then another Guaraldi composition, “Alma-Ville,” which brings a place alive (I’m s’posin’ Alma-Ville) and you might imagine a jazz enthusiast beagle or something. Finally, the hit ballad “Since I Fell for You” (Buddy Johnson), so lyrical I don’t miss the lyrics—well, I suppose I’m singing along but no one has to know that. Also, there’s some heady liner notes by Ralph J. Gleason, and I’m here to tell you, nice reading over coffee—because that’s what I just did—while listening to this record, once again.

What are my impressions? It’s a super laidback jazz trio record—piano, bass, and drums—and I believe it’s the only Vince Guaraldi I have—they’re not easy to come by in the cheap record bins, in my experience—or I’d have more. This one must have sold a lot—since I managed a cheap copy. I have decidedly shallow pockets—have I made that clear? I’m surprised I even found this. You’d guess that his Great Pumpkin soundtrack sold a “bajillion” copies and should populate thrift stores everywhere, yet you never see it, and reissues even cost a lot. Anyway, this would be a good record to put on during a date, while mixing the cocktails. That’s assuming I’m the one mixing the cocktails—maybe we should be breaking up the chores—since I’m spinning the records and adjusting the soft lighting, maybe she’s making the cocktails and deveining the shrimp—or should I take care of the deveining—no one likes to do that. I’m assuming shrimp cocktails—but what if it comes down to real cocktails? Am I ready to start drinking again in order to take the edge off dating? And what if the cocktails she makes are like hazelnut butterscotch cookie dough “martinis”—or some current drink I don’t even know the name of? Icebreaker, or Dealbreaker? (Sounds like I just invented a new gameshow!) And does anyone really do that? Put records on, and then have to keep changing records during a date? Some advice, my friend: if you’re buying a turntable, make sure you get one with automatic return. When the needle gets to the end of the record and keeps going round and round in a that scratchy way, it’s a real mood-killer. Even if you’re at home alone and listening to records while cleaning, or cooking, or writing about records.

5.23.25

The Flock “The Flock”

It starts out with a violin-heavy “overture” called “Introduction”—should I write a song called “Introduction”—the absurdity of it! Maybe a song called “Preface” and one called “Foreword”—anyway, it’s nice for what it is—it sounds kind of like the soundtrack for a comically pretentious short documentary film depicting the trimming of an aristocrat’s moustache. It’s a great lead-in to the heavy-duty rock opening of the next one—an 8-minute song called “Clown”—this one is pretty hot—heavy-duty for a bit—and then has a really nice, cooking violin bridge part—and that leads to a really long, lingering instrumental that sounds like a slow coda—is that the ending of a song? Where normally it would fade out after the right amount of time—but instead, there’s a crazy sax and trumpet part—dueling saxes (and trumpet, I guess)—and then more fading, just the bass left playing this repetitious part… and then right back into it! “I Am the Tall Tree”—starts out slow and quiet, harmonizing, then builds and builds—huge dynamic shift—it even has a little bridge where they sing “The Russians are coming” repeatedly—I wonder if I can find all the lyrics—it’s an epic in under six minutes. Finally, “Tired of Waiting”—credited to The Flock—but it’s The Kinks’ hit (minus “For You”)—just a wacky take on it—a really good version, actually—maybe this was intended to be the “single” even though not (remotely) seeming like a singles band—if you took out the violin intro, it could be shaved down to four minutes—so maybe? It has a great guitar solo—you had to imagine the ol’ Kinks were approving of this version, unless they were just being jealous wankers about it. Or didn’t like it being credited to “The Flock” rather than R. Davies—I wonder if there’s a story there?

Side 2 explodes and catches on fire immediately with a classic speaker-melter—no really, there’s something smoking (oh, I was drying a pan, I always do that, and forget), a drum break, then nuts guitar solo, cowbell, then it stops for a vocal: “store bought, store thought,” and then heavy jam again, then some vocals I can’t understand—then it drops down to just acoustic guitar and flute, and dude is singing about “robots” (what the hell?)—then back to an insane instrumental part that actually tops the opening. And more of the same—I can’t understand the lyrics at all—a great song, another epic, seven minutes. Whew. Then, an extended—and I mean… 15 minutes plus (uh, oh) song called “Truth” (uh, oh), it’s an extended blues, and dude is a fine blues singer, and the violin is a very nice blues compliment—but then it goes into a long, long, long instrumental that wears out its welcome about seven minutes in. Well, there’s some hot sax in there, but it’s a relief when we get back to the bluesy stuff, and singing—and then it finishes out with cacophony—excellent!

The album cover got my attention—an odd font: “The Flock”—and a black and white group photo that appears to be maybe the stillest moment they could pull off—several of them engaged in smoking various substances. I’m not listing the band member names—because there are so many of them (and I’m assuming that reader has the internet and can happily research what each band member has done post this band). Name-wise, you might get them confused with the NYC law firm, Glickstein, Goodman, Karpman, Smith, Canoff, Webb, and Posa (though not with “A Flock of Lawyers,” the infamous 1980s Kent, Ohio zine). Seven longhaired white guys, all but one with facial hair, two with sunglasses, one with a hat, and a lot of leather. If I didn’t know better I might have guessed they were part of the cast of a Fassbinder film, or a European prog/experimental band with a name like (    ) pick any obscure, ancient deity here—they have all been used as band names!

Why weren’t they a bigger success (i.e., household name) than they were? We’ll have to wait for the inevitable documentary, I suppose (every documentary is these days inevitable). It’s not like it was too early, 1969, for that extent of fusion of styles and genres and approaches—well, maybe it was too early—a lot going on musically here. Maybe because it’s a band band, without an obvious focus, like front man—though I’m suspecting that the dude (Jerry Goodman?) whose picture is on the back album cover—flying hair, no shirt, wailing violin—would have gotten your attention. Liner notes by John Mayall that are quite glowing—he says they’re the best band he’d heard in America. And so they are! I mean, what is success anyway—they had this record on Columbia, and a follow-up record (which I’m going to try to find) and then some more, later. They are certainly the best band playing here in Speen HQ on a Friday in 2025—and as far as I’m concerned, that translates to immortality, which is a lot more impressive than one annoying radio hit that still gets played on “oldies” formats and makes your ears bleed and want to give up on popular culture.

5.16.25

The Archies “Catching Up On Fun” flexi-disc

I’m pretty sure I got this flexi-disc off a box of Honeycombs cereal—like it was part of the box, and you had to cut around the dotted line (once you were done eating it)—in 1970. Still smells faintly like Honeycombs. There’s a garage sale price sticker on the “label” part—1 cent—so maybe I bought it—or maybe I tried to sell it, and no one was buying (really?)—but either way, I know I got several of these off cereal boxes—gone now—but I have this one. It’s actually 33 1/3 RPM (not 45) but it still plays fine—a little scratchy, but it works—which is a little bit amazing. This one was a series of four songs—all listed like it’s a four-song record, but you only get one at a time. I don’t believe I heard “Catching Up On Fun” anywhere else—it’s an okay song—not one of my favorites. It’s a bit, “I’m gonna go out and try to have sex with everybody.” The “fun” in question is “love,” as in makin’ it. Naturally, it sounds exactly like The Archies. Several of the cartoon characters are pictured, dancing, on the disc, along with a yellow background and black musical notes. So it’s essentially a picture-disc, as well! Ten of them, hippie-era—Archie has a polka-dot shirt, and the girls have miniskirts. I think that one woman is Sabrina—who turned out to be a witch, right? No doubt she was the one they went to for drugs. I used to read Archies comics—I didn’t go for the Superheroes—they creeped me out—especially the disturbing, twisted, sexual undertones. I was kind of a square kid—I liked the bubblegum pop version of sex—though there was still a lot of sex—especially in the comics.

5.9.25

The Hello People “Fusion”

As you might expect from a 1968 release in which two-thirds of the band are mimes, the music on this record is all over the place, from pop and country to psychedelic rock to jazz and folk. Along with bad-trip acid rock, there are songs that sound like the most radio friendly stuff you’ve ever heard, TV theme songs, Saturday morning cartoon, supper-club goofing, conservatory jazz, church music, and serious movie soundtrack tearjerkers—as well as serene-trip acid rock. Fans of the flute—you’re home! I’m not sure about the percentage of mimes—I’m judging by the six band member photos on the inside album cover—well, one of them is entirely in silhouette, or maybe the back of the dude’s head—but four are definitely mimes. How does that translate as more than a duo, sound-wise? Well, I think a musician can go back and forth from singing performance to mime performance, and it’s okay. I remember seeing David Bowie on some late-night music show when I was a kid, and he was doing some unmistakable mime business, and it worked out—I was both frightened and mesmerized. I didn’t go join a troupe or anything. Some people say they can’t tolerate mimes, but I think this is one of those affected hatreds (such as aversion to winter, clowns, fruitcakes, rainstorms, and Steely Dan) based on people wanting to “fit in”—more than any genuine, open-minded dislike.

And I suppose that’s all water under the bridge, seeing how they are one of the few record-releasing Sixties bands who are NOT still together and playing on this summer’s festival circuit. Too bad, too, because their lyrics—those that are of a political nature—are as relevant now as they ever were. There’s a bit of info on their Wikipedia page—one of their most catchy earworms (songs) was banned in some cities for being against war. Yet they were also on TV—appearances on the Tonight Show and The Smothers Brothers, even. As you might expect with the mime theme, the band members all had stage names, which I’m not going to list—but the one that cracks me up is: “Country”—a guy whose real name, W. S. “Sonny” Tongue, could have carried the day, just fine, unadorned, no problem. Looks like they put out about seven LPs over a decade, and that was it, but I wouldn’t mind finding a few more, like this one that doubled as a TEAC/Tascam 4-track instruction record. Their last LP is titled: “Lost at Sea”—and I’ve got to say, it would please me very much, as well, if my last record (but would you, realistically, know at the time?) had that title. Lost at Sea—the aptness and the poetry and the nautical. I’m not sure if this one—Fusion—consciously referred to the variety of musical styles—or—nuclear fusion—as in against it as a weapon, or, for it as a way to warm the swelling population without cutting down trees. Could easily be: “all of the above.”

5.2.25